She puts on her lipstick, her T-Mobile sidekick going off, alerting her of two new messages - both from her agent; he’s getting impatient, panicking that she might be too high to do the shoot, call me back ASAP.
But a job’s a job and she needs the money but Frank won’t stop touching her seven-year old, maybe younger, body in her head and she takes the glass pipe to her thick red-painted lips, watches the glass bubble at the end of the pipe’s stem fill up with white smoke dissolving from the speed rocks, clouding the inside of the pipe; and she closes her eyes to feel it better and inhales the drug deeply, the image of the fogged up bathtub faucet from that day in Florida blending into the fogged up faucet in front of her, unable to make sense of it, gently confused by it, memories crashing into present images, everything whirling into each other, entangling emotion with imagery, with what’s in front, and letting the drug make everything soft and dull and sane.
She texts her agent back 20 minutes later. She’ll be downstairs in an hour, still getting dress, SMOOCH.
She takes the buttplug out of her ass (practiced by many to properly allow the asshole to prepare for harsh ass fucking), slaps herself in the face to stop herself from breaking down, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t – like today. She pulls apart her razor and breaks loose one of the thin blades and slices her inner thighs, each sting giving her instant relief, sighing, instantly regretting that the marks might turn off the male performers and, shit, even cause the director to cancel the entire shoot (naw, probably not that far) but it’s working and she gets her soul ready for another gangbang scene for one of the valley porn studios.
Under the Table:
by James Claffey